


soft shadows, faint footprints

by graceverse



Series: Jonsa Drabble Fest Round Two [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Jonsa Drabble Fest, One-Sided Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, a little bit angsty for now, jonsa drabbles round two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-08-25 21:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16668988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceverse/pseuds/graceverse
Summary: A collection of Jonsa drabbles





	1. Relief

He dreams two dreams of her.

The first one he dreams on his way to Dragonstone. The dream is at Castle Black, the day Sansa had walked in, turning slowly around, searching for him, the light snow catching and clinging unto her hair, her dirtied face and clothes.

But it is all wrong.

They are never the right age. Sometimes, she is unbearably young, the little girl that clutched at Robb’s knee, giggling, not wanting to let go, no matter how many times their father called to her. This young Sansa is wearing clothes stained with something dark and foreboding. She goes around in endless circles, sobbing, pleading for Robb to come and save her.

Robb is not here. Robb is dead. Robb’s head had been cut off by the treacherous Freys. Jon calls out to her, shouts her name, but his large booming voice, the voice of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch does not seem to reach her. She wipes her face with her tiny chubby hands, smearing blood on her sweet gentle face.

Sometimes, the roles are reversed. He is the young bastard boy, staring dumbfounded at the grown up Sansa Stark. She is now impossibly tall and despite the smudges in her face, the tangled mess of her red hair, she is the most elegant and beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. She is as radiant as he remembered her. It made his little heart hurt.

“Jon!” She calls out to him, flinging herself towards him, but with no one to catch her, she ends up kneeling in the snow. Her relief at seeing him was evident in the way she kept calling him, tears streaming down her face. But his little small boy legs would not – could not – move fast enough. He is surrounded by men wearing nothing but the color black, their gruff voices and dark chuckles fills Jon’s ears. They want his sister. The filthy bastards. He’ll kill them all.  

“Leave Sansa.” He trills in his high pitched voice, cracking at her name. “Leave! I’ll save you. But you have to leave. You can’t stay here.” But he can’t see her anymore, she is enveloped in darkness.

Jon does not understand this dream. Could not make sense of what it meant. Is he fated to never be able to protect her? The one he loved.

There is a certain relief in finally admitting to his feeling for her. His sister. He is an utterly depraved bastard but he is not without hope. He had forced himself to flee from his ever growing need – a craving he had started to fear – to be near her, to touch her, to let his kisses on her cheeks, on her forehead linger, his mouth slightly parting to taste her skin.   

There is an ocean between them now and Jon hopes that it is enough, for now, at least.

But it his second dream that troubles him so. His second dream will be his damnation.


	2. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dreamy, blurry quality of the light surrounding Sansa makes him dizzy. Or it is probably the serene, gentle expression on her face, which is a startlingly direct contrast to what her mouth is doing.

The room is warm, in a languorous kind of way and despite the raging winter storm outside, Jon does not feel cold at all. In fact, he feels breathless. There is an unspeakable tightness in his jerkin. It is almost suffocating. He curls two fingers where the leather touches the base of his throat and tugs it away from his skin.

He glances at Sansa, his sister – _half_ -sister, his mind corrects him sounding aggressively insolent.

The dreamy, blurry quality of the light surrounding Sansa makes him dizzy. Or it is probably the serene, gentle expression on her face, which is a startlingly direct contrast to what her mouth is doing.

She is patiently trying to thread a needle. He had been observing her do this for a whole minute already, his tankard of ale long forgotten. He bows his head, but flicks his eyes back to her, just in time to watch the tip of her tongue wet the end of the thread she had been using to mend one of his old tunics.

Jon feels something inside of him stirring, awakening. He imagines the wetness of Sansa’s mouth, watching as she clamps the thread between her lips. He is barely able to hide the way he is panting, as Sansa very slowly releases the thread, glistening and wet.

He watches as she unsuccessfully puts it through the needle’s eye. She lets out frustrated snort, truly un-lady like. But Jon cannot stop his quickening pulse. He is suddenly aware of the booming, throbbing sound of his own heartbeat inside his head.

And Jon knows, understands that he is dreaming when he finds himself suddenly out of his chair, kneeling in front of Sansa, his right hand – his sword hand – wrapping around her wrist, his other hand, crawling up her skirt. The cool smoothness of her ankle, legs and then her thigh registers in his brain. Jon lets out a growl as he feels Sansa take in a deep shaky breath, murmuring his name.  

“It’s too dark for that, Sansa.” His voice is low, the words coming slow and almost forceful. There was a dangerous lilt in the way he said her name and Sansa looks up at him, her blues eyes clear and piercing, widening slowly as his fingers finally finds the warm, wet, heat of her.

His touch is unashamed, sure, unapologetic, demanding and begging all at the same time. But this is not enough. He needs more. Jon craves to touch her. Everywhere. Gently and sweetly and possessively. He longs to claim her, mark her, make her sigh his name, scream it in desire.

But it is him who groans out her name, whimpering and yearning: _Sansa. Sansa._

A hand cups his face, a voice asks, “What is it my love?”

And Jon wakes up, finds himself staring into the wrong shade of eyes, wrong color of hair. He closes his eyes, shakes his head.

“Nothing, my queen. Nothing.” And it is both the truth and a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I would like to kindly request for anyone to write a full blown fanfic where Jon gets massively turned on by Sansa trying to thread a needle. Please. Thank you.


	3. Snowflakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon remembers a rhyme Sansa used to recite when they were children: "Halo around the sun or moon, rain or snow soon.”
> 
> Soon. He will be home soon. Winterfell. Ghost. Bran. Arya. Sansa.

Jon Snow stood at the deck of the ship, bundled in dark furs. He is alone; it is too cold to be outside but he is the only true Northern man aboard, everyone else had decided that seeing Moat Calilin as they approached it was but a futile act, bordering on stupidly dangerous.

Danaerys had not approved. Davos had advised him against it. But Moat Cailin is an ancient stronghold of the First Men. It demanded that it be seen, even in its current state of ruins. Jon Snow is a bastard born, true, but he is as educated as the sons and daughters of Lord Eddard Stark. He knows his history.

The heavy fogs that had enveloped them during their trip had dissipated. Jon could clearly see the outlines of the three remaining towers. He can imagine where exactly ghostskins had grown, thick and ropey. Behind the remains of Moat Cailin, up on the sky, was a halo of light. The weak looking sun is a blurred circle and around it, a wide arc of white light.

Jon remembers a rhyme Sansa used to recite when they were children: " _Halo around the sun or moon, r_ _ain or snow soon_.”

 _Soon._ He will be home soon. Winterfell. Ghost. Bran. Arya. Sansa.

And how shall he act when he finds himself in front of her, her blue eyes, gazing at his face? How could he not fall on his knees and pledge his own life to her, to ask her to forgive his treacherous heart that loved her still even though he had tried _everything_ to forget the unspeakable desires of his heart?

Jon knows that he will not hesitate, he is a fool, and it is true, for he will take her in his arms, even if it will damn him. He needs to. He has been away from her for far too long.  

_You have to be smarter than Father. You need to be smarter than Robb._

Jon closes his eyes, and remembers Sansa’s voice, the way it trembled when they had argued the night before the battle with Boltons.

 _Battle of the Bastards._ It is called _that_ for a reason. He hardens his resolve. Remembers his plan. He will not put her, or anyone else in danger. He will not even _touch_ her or look at her. He has to be calculating and cold.

Jon grits his teeth, the anger and confusion and guilt and longing slamming into him all at once. He hates. For a moment, he hates everything. He hates being a bastard, being brought back to life, being King, playing the game of thrones –but something flutters down in front of him, white and small and delicate. Jon untucks his hand from his coat, reaches out to catch one.

A snowflake, stark white, settles against his glove.

Something inside of him melts; it is the thawing of his plan, he realizes. He cannot do it. He can no longer pretend nor does he want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might not be able to post the rest of the drabbles on time. Flying to somewhere cold, where hopefully, I can actually touch a snowflake, for a short vacation. I hope that is ok. Thank you for reading.


	4. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon flees, like a coward, unable to face the truth. The one thing he had held onto all these times have cruelly dissolved into nothing but lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm back from vacation. I hope it's okay that I'm posting these late :)

Jon flees, like a coward, unable to face the truth. The one thing he had held onto all these times have cruelly dissolved into nothing but lies.

No matter how lonely and miserable his childhood had been, he had learned to accept it, because the gods have been kind enough to give him a father who was brave and strong, gentle and kind. Who loved him and taught him to be all that. And although Jon knew he had fallen short of his father’s expectations, it was something that he could still strive for: to be as good as Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, his father.

No. No. _Uncle_. Ned Stark was his uncle.

His mother had been Lyanna Stark, whose stone statue he barely cared for. His father, Rhaegar Targaryen, was no hero. He was a coward who could not keep his marriage vows, seduced a young girl, and took her away from her home, her family only to let her die alone in a tower. Daenerys Targaryen, whom he had bedded, was the youngest sister of his father. His aunt.

This explains everything that was wrong with him. His Targaryen blood had made him weak and dishonorable. Only a Targaryen would fuck his aunt while imagining that it was his own half-sister – no, no, _cousin_ – who was underneath him: red hair gloriously splayed on the pillow, long legs wrapped around his waist …

Jon angrily shakes his head. He is so utterly disgusting, even in his wretched grief. There is nothing that could be done now. What was done was done. But this – this makes everything so much more complicated.

Is being a Targaryen prince any better than being a Stark bastard? It feels strangely the same to him. He is still fatherless. He is still motherless. Jon Snow is erased. Jon Snow is finally dead. He isn’t sure who he is anymore.

At the sound of crunching snow, Jon turns; ready to lash out with words or fists, or both. But it is only his dire wolf. “Ghost. Did you miss me?”

Jon notices something clamped between Ghost’s teeth. “What have you got there?” He asks as he gently tugs at it. Ghost lets go, flicks his eyes up at him and licks his hand. Jon takes a deep breath before looking down at what Ghost had brought him.

The work is exquisite; the stitches are perfectly lined, all in the same exact size. It is a perfect replica of his most loyal Ghost, creature of the North, his ruby red eyes twinkling.

 _Sansa_ , Jon thinks. She must have spent endless nights embroidering this. He unfolds the cloth and swallows hard, his heart squeezing painfully tight. He lifts it close to his face, gently kissing the edges, as he remembered her words:

_“I am not a Stark.”_

_“You are to me.”_

And so he shall be a Stark. For her. For it is _her_ truth. And it is all that matters to Jon.


	5. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon moves just as Sansa does. There is no elegance in the way they reach out towards each other, no gentleness or shyness of first time lovers. They have danced around each other long before he had set sail for Dragonstone; their song has reached its inevitable crescendo. There is nothing left to do but grip each other, hands fisting on furs and leather gloves, seeking skin and warmth

He finds her up at the battlements. Fresh virgin snow has settled upon the land and everything is silvery and pure. Sansa is a dark figure amongst the endless white, her red hair hidden by a thick fur hood.

Jon watches as Sansa tilts her head sideways, the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheeks takes his breath away. She nods her head and Jon approaches her. His footprints follow hers and it is the way it will always be, Jon knows this.

He is startled to realize that he no longer hears Ygritte’s voice telling him that he knows nothing. For it’s no longer true. He knows things now. He knows pain and death, betrayal and love. He knows that if Sansa asks – and he is certain that she will – to make a liar out of him, he will oblige.

Jon moves just as Sansa does. There is no elegance in the way they reach out towards each other, no gentleness or shyness of first time lovers. They have danced around each other long before he had set sail for Dragonstone; their song has reached its inevitable crescendo. There is nothing left to do but grip each other, hands fisting on furs and leather gloves, seeking skin and warmth. But winter only permits their faces to be free from garments and so they both lean towards each other and oh, what sweet wonderful bliss, to feel her warm breath puffing against his cheeks.

He feels the tiny tremors sweeping up her body and he pulls and presses closer, his nose burrowing into the arch of her neck. He breathes her name and she does his and Jon’s heart, not dead, not cold or frozen, leaps and shudders inside his chest.

“We can’t.” His voice is desperate and needful. Jon finds some miniscule space between them and it is simply unacceptable. He holds her tighter, his palm pressing against the small of her back.

“No, not yet.” She agrees as she voices out their inescapable truth. “She mustn’t know. Your Queen, she mustn’t…”

Jon is quick to correct her. “She is no Queen of mine. I only-”

Sansa stops him from saying more, takes a quick step away from him to grip his jaw. “Be careful of what you say, Jon. I do not know how dangerous your aunt is, but I fear for you.” Her voice trembles. “If she finds out about your Targaryen blood-”

Jon shakes his head. His dragon blood means nothing to him. He cares not about the Iron Throne. He will not fight his aunt for all Seven Kingdoms. Just one.

“Your heart then,” Sansa murmurs, her cheeks reddening.

“Aye.” Jon agrees.

Sansa sniffs gently as she looks away for a second before looking back at him. “Then you know what you have to do.”

“Aye.” There is hollowness in his answer.

“Then you must do it well.”

“Aye. But not yet.” And he pulls her back towards him, finally, hungrily kissing her.


	6. Furs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fur the color of cinders and blood. It is a fitting reminder of what his family had built and turned into ashes. The red proud streak of three dragon heads, he could have done without, but it is the sigil of his house and they cannot be erased, just as he did not want their history erased. It is for everyone to know and to learn from. But the dragon heads, he made them bow, curled low in humble defeat, in utter surrender. He is the last of this bloodline and everyone shall know it too.

**_His_ **

Is the color of tar, dark smoke billowing up the sky as King’s Landing burned for days on end. Fur the color of cinders and blood. It is a fitting reminder of what his family had built and turned into ashes. The red proud streak of three dragon heads, he could have done without, but it is the sigil of his house and they cannot be erased, just as he did not want their history erased. It is for everyone to know and to learn from. But the dragon heads, he made them bow, curled low in humble defeat, in utter surrender. He is the last of this bloodline and everyone shall know it too.

Sansa had offered to sew his cloak, but Jon refused. He will only wear it once, just so he could finally be rid of it. He will stand still as he is accepts the sigil and colors of his mother’s – and his bride’s - house, for it is who he is and it is who he wants to be. Not just because Sansa had once told him that he was a Stark to her, but because in his heart of hearts, Jon knows: it is who he is. It his home: Winterfell. The North. Ghost. Sansa.

 

* * *

 

**_Hers_ **

She walks towards him; the hushed silence of the godswood of Winterfell is all for her. He is a warrior, not a poet and for a moment, Jon is sorry that he cannot write songs for her. Someone will. And it will be about the autumn in her hair, the winter blue roses in her eyes, the summer warmth of her smile and the loveliness of spring in the way she moves, light and free and happy. That is what Jon will remember. How happy she is.

Some says that magic has left the world after the War for the Dawn, but Jon does not believe this. Sansa weaves magic in her hands as the six direwolves lovingly embroidered at the hem of her cloak seem to dance at each step she takes.

There is magic in the way she makes him feel a myriad of emotions ranging from panicked disbelief to complete possessiveness: she is absolutely his as he is hers.

Vows are exchanged and finally, Jon drops his Targaryen colored furs. He shall burn them later but for now, he closes his eyes as he is enveloped in gray and white. He feels incredibly light. Light enough to fear that he might fly away and miss his own wedding. This makes him chuckle and Sansa arches a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Later.” He mouths her, bowing his head as she moves beside him, finally giving him his heart’s desires: The Stark name, a family that they will create and love, a home that they will make in Winterfell.  

Wrapped in her furs, he is now Jon Stark and Jon Stark takes the hand of his wife and together, they walk towards their dream.


	7. Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon’s heart squeezes painfully, it is not from grief, but from too much joy. Sansa beams up at him. She is glowing the same way she did a thousand years ago, when she was a bright eyed child dreaming of being a queen and Jon is startled to realize that he feels exactly the same way then and now.
> 
> The revelation hits him hard and true, knocking the wind out of him.

Here is a confession: Jon does not like it when Sansa wears the heavy crown of the Queen in the North. When she wears it, Jon feels selfish. He truly does not want to share her with the Northerners or burden her with the many woes of running a kingdom. She is quite capable, of course. But he feels protective of her. It annoys her sometimes, but Jon cannot help it.

The North is relatively peaceful and prosperous. It hadn’t been for the first few years after the war. Jon remembers Winterfell, covered in ashes and memories of death and pain. They were so young then, so very wary of everyone else and tired from all the battles they had to endure. Justice had to be dispensed at the same time, alliances had to be made. The North, The South and The Wildlings learned to accept their differences, work together to rise from the ravages of war.

Sam nudges him. Jon forgets himself and does or says nothing when he watches his wife. This is a formal, solemn event. He is expected to make gestures or speeches. He isn’t sure which. Jon forgets he is also wearing the crown. It is not the same one that Robb had once worn but Jon thinks it is just as heavy. There are days when he wishes to fling the crown off his and Sansa’s head, take her hand and run into the woods, laughing and indulging the desires of their heart. But they loved the North and its people so their duties always came first.

Sansa presents him their first grandchild and Jon nods as regally as he could. He is terribly pleased that it looks every bit a Stark. Dark hair and eyes the color of winter skies.

None of their children were named after the siblings they have lost. Jon had thought that he’d want a son named Robb, but the loss still prods at his heart like the tip of a sharpened blade. Their son though, who grew up hearing about his great uncle, King Robb Stark, names his child after his childhood hero.

Jon’s heart squeezes painfully, it is not from grief, but from too much joy. Sansa beams up at him. She is glowing the same way she did a thousand years ago, when she was a bright eyed child dreaming of being a queen and Jon is startled to realize that he feels exactly the same way then _and_ now.

The revelation hits him hard and true, knocking the wind out of him. Quick to notice the tiniest change in him, Sansa settles next to him, cradling little Robb in one arm. She reaches out to touch his hand.

Jon grasps her finger and mumbles, “I just found out now.”

Sansa sweetly asks what, humoring his tendency to blurt out his thoughts.

“It has always been you.”

Sansa gives him a look, one that wordlessly said, as only wives can do, “I know, husband. I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a wonderful quote from Haruki Murakami about short stories: "My short stories are like soft shadows I have set out in the world, faint footprints I have left. I remember exactly where I set down each and every one of them, and how I felt when I did. Short stories are like guideposts to my heart…" ~Haruki Murakami
> 
> I read somewhere that the real short stories are the 500 words we tell each other. I want to take this opportunity to thank the Jonsa Community for letting us tell our stories.


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